


Ghosts

by ChibiAuthorNate



Series: Embers of War [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Memories, Uncle Bel Has Yet Another Anger, ghostlands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 02:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15698046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiAuthorNate/pseuds/ChibiAuthorNate
Summary: In the wake of Violet's arrival in the Undercity, Beleron returns to his homeland to clear his head.--Takes place during "Alone Together", Book 1 of ChibiAuthorJessie's "Chronicles of War", and contains minor spoilers.





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alone Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527392) by [ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie). 



> Takes place after Chapter 4 of "Alone Together", as well as before Chapter 16.

The tree nearest to Beleron starts to smolder as the teleportation spell dies away, stagnant aroma of the Ghostlands replacing the damp air of the Undercity.

Why had Sylvanas stopped him? That human should be cinders at his feet.

A passing spider comes too close and he unleashes a torrent of fire, incinerating it.

He wanders aimlessly for hours. Why had Tyr’iel brought her back to the Undercity? Compassion aside, the boy could have just as easily teleported himself to safety and let her die. No human had walked the streets of Lorderon since Arthas unleashed the full might of the Scourge upon it. And it should have stayed that way.

Men are a blight upon Azeroth, concerned only with themselves. They try to convince themselves that what they do is in the interest of their people or their country, but power is the only constant they strive for. Not in a pursuit of knowledge or the perfection of an art form, but because it is there and having it means the ability to subjugate those “lesser” than them. The elves should have never dragged them up from the muck and taught them the secrets of magic.

Beleron glances around at the corruption surrounding him as the last thought passes. He remembers the trees as they were long ago, tall and golden and perfect. Looking down, he realizes he’s standing on the road leading to Windrunner Spire, just past the fork that leads to the Sanctum of the Moon. He smiles, remembering the day he and Kael’thas arrived at the Sanctum to study outside the city for a time. The stay was a short one - Kael had set the Sanctum on fire by accident and the two young elves had teleported away. He begins to walk again, looking for anything creeping beneath the once bright trees. Another spark of rage ignites in his chest as the stench of undeath stings his nose, dredging up the thought of the bastard who did this.

Arthas. Another man who sought power to save his people. His weak mind broken by the machinations of a dreadlord, seeding it with the promise of salvation. The day the Scourge came to Quel’thalas is burned so clearly in Beleron’s mind that it would haunt him still if he lived to be ten thousand years old. The traitor Dar’khan revealing to the fallen prince the secrets to breaching the magical wards upon the Thalassian gate, allowing the undead to run rampant through Quel'Thalas.

A twinge of grief strikes him, passing almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with smoldering hate. Sylvanas died because of Dar’khan’s actions. His children had died. His wife had died. His King had been murdered and his Prince driven to madness and fel corruption. The screams still echo in his ears and haunt his dreams. All because of the power mongering of a human prince.

Coming out of the haze of memory, Beleron almost walks straight into the path of a wandering abomination. Calling up a pillar of flame, he obliterates the thing where it shambles, leaving nothing but a black mark upon the ground. In the absence of any other sound as the crackle of the flames dies away, he hears voices coming from the East. He knows that there are adventurers throughout the Ghostlands, young elves eager to prove their worth to the Reagent Lord. But something about these voices is different - they lack the harmonious tones of the Sin’dorei. Something about them is dark and filled with scorn.

Hurrying toward the voices, Beleron comes over a small rise and looks once more upon the ancestral home of the Windrunners. The once proud towers of the spire, so bright and golden in the light of the sun, now stand lusterless and gray. The light of the cold moon bathing the stone in silver radiance, a stinging reminder of past glories gone sour. Milling about the spire and surrounding houses are dozens of humanoid figures, accompanied by the floating specters of banshees. His people. Raised into eternal torment in undeath. At closer inspection, the figures are human, dressed in the unmistakable garb of the Cult of the Damned. Kel’thuzad’s mortal servants, still defiling the land of the Sin’dorei with their taint.

Not anymore. Not here, nor anywhere else if he can help it. Every trace of the malignant, festering stink of undeath will be wiped from this sacred land. Beleron strides forward, gathering power around himself as he does.

The first cultist barely has time to look up before a gout of liquid fire scorches the flesh from his bones.

“Tal anu’men no Sin’dorei!”

He walks through the grounds systematically, obliterating every sad excuse for a magic user he comes across. He lays to rest as many of his tormented kin as he can. The last human he encounters must be the leader of this sect of the cult, as he radiates more dark power than any of the others. As he rounds a corner to clear the uppermost reaches of the spire, a blast of shadow magic catches him full in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Only the enchantments he had woven into his robes and the resistance to magic in his blood keeps his soul from being ripped out.

“You have no place here anymore, elfling.” The man says through grinning teeth. “This land belongs to the Lich King now, and his power shall consume you all soon enough.”

Beleron laughs through strained lungs.

“It is you who have no place here, infant. You and your misbegotten King will soon be scoured from existence. Once that task is done and no trace of your malign filth remains, this land shall bloom again.” Beleron stands slowly, coalescing fire in his hands. “Begone from this place, parasite!”

The magic leaves his hands in a stream of white-hot hatred, blasting the cultist from his feet and scorching him beyond recognition. As the light of the magic dies away, the glint of gold on the body catches Beleron’s eye. Bending down to inspect it, he finds an intricate locket of elven design in what remains of the humans robes. Turning it over his hands, he finds an inscription in flowing Thalassian.

_To Sylvanas, with love always. –Alleria_

 

\---

 

The light of the alchemical burners flicker as they die out, casting long shadows over Beleron’s laboratory. He sits at a small desk, compiling a series of notes and arcane diagrams. The scraps of undead flesh and bits of ectoplasm he had gathered in the Ghostlands almost two months ago have been all but exhausted. The necklace sits on the corner of the desk, the dying firelight glinting off the intricate engravings. He separates the notes into three piles, addressing each of them separately. One headed for Silvermoon and Grand Magister Rommath. The others to Dalaran, one to Archmage Khadgar and the other to Aethas Sunreaver. Each packet contains the years of research Beleron has put into to studying whether or not undeath can be reversed. The power of necromancy may be powered by the fel, but if a thing can be made, it can also be unmade. And not necessarily through destruction. If the secret can be unlocked, the Ghostlands and the Dead Scar could be healed.

The night is growing old. The moon has passed its height, slowly drifting toward the morning. Morning and the looming journey to Outland. One last chance to convince Kael’thas to come back to Silvermoon and abandon his quest for a “cure”. Telling Tyr’iel had been difficult enough, but what's next would be even more so. Beleron picks up the locket and the packets of parchment, leaving his quarters for what he believes may be the last time.

A quick stop at the postal service and Beleron turns towards the Apothacarium and the Royal Quarter, walking slowly. He reaches the throne room and passes the dais to the wall that holds the secret passage to Sylvanas’s quarters. As he’s about to touch the stone and open the door, it slides open. If the Banshee Queen could be startled, it’s quite possible she would have been.

“Beleron! I would have thought you would have retired for the night.”

“No sleep will find me tonight, or possibly many nights hence.” He replies. “I knew this day would come, but I did not think it would be this soon. I have to try and get through to him. Make him see reason.”

“He is too far gone for that. You know it.”

“I must try. He was my closest friend. We grew up together, played together, and learned together. We fought together. I cannot forsake him so easily. I cannot forsake the promise I made to his father so easily.”

“What promise could you have made to Anasterian that you could possibly still keep?”

“I promised him that I would not let Kael do anything impulsive. I have already failed in that regard, but I must try to make it right. I thought I could keep him on a straight path when we followed Illidan, but I was not strong enough.”

“That is a promise long gone, dalah’surfal. But you would not be coming to me at this late hour to discuss old promises.”

“No. I came to give you this.” Beleron pulls the locket out of a hidden pocket in his robes and hands it to her. “I found it in the Ghostlands months ago, while exterminating some pests in your ancestral home.”

She raises an eyebrow as she takes the locket.

“Pests?”

Belerons’ eyes flash momentarily.

“Human followers of Kel’thuzad. Pests.”

Sylvanas looks down at the necklace, turning it over in her hands.

“This thing is a long dead memory. Like Alleria.” She snaps, dropping the necklace to the cold stone. “Why did you bring me this?”

“I may not return from this journey.” Beleron’s shoulders sag, as if under a great weight. “Perhaps it is an odd sentiment that I should give you has same memento as Alleria did years ago. But if I am mistaken for one of Kael’s counselors…. I do not know when the adventurers will strike, and I wanted to prepare for the worst.”

“You _will_ come back to me!” Sylvanas snarls. She grabs the neck of Beleron’s robes, pulling his face close to hers. “Come back to me or I will drag you back from the Twisting Nether myself, just to send you back with my own hands!”

Her kiss is fierce enough to draw blood, rocking him back on his heels.

“Leave, Beleron.” She growls. “Before I dash your head against the wall for even thinking of giving into defeat so easily.”

He turns and leaves the throne room, the coppery taste of blood fresh in his mouth. These next weeks will be long and sorrowful. As he leaves the Apothicarium for the Trade Quarter, a startling sound echoes through the city. The mournful notes of a song drift over the canals.

_Anar'alah, anar'alah, belore..._

He winces at the words, trying to keep the knot in his throat from choking him. What appetite he has is now lost, as the pain of his people permeates the cold stones to their core.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated!


End file.
